


Predator

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Napoleonic Wars, Russian Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Two snapshots in the life of Dolokhov, both pre-Clara. One is close to the end of the war, another is in the ballroom....both are him doing something he does best, which is to hunt prey. :D
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. At War

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing is graphic here, but there are (separate) lead-ups to death, and sex.

This was not the type of cold that Claude was used to. This was brutal, and relentless; the type that chilled you from the inside out. It stung you, it battered you, it crept into your bones and stayed there. Russians, Claude decided, must be made of ice.

He watched the small group of Russian soldiers gathered around their fire. They were being careless, on the French side of the territory. He knew that he would only be able to shoot one or two before he would have to run, but he was good at hiding. He would come back for more. 

This war wasn’t over yet. 

Claude steadied his gun, bracing his arm, and stared down the length of his rifle. Then, so suddenly he jumped, he felt icy steel against his throat. A heavy boot kicked the gun from his hand, and a deep voice spoke mocking French softly into the night.

“It’s cold out, isn’t it?”

Claude tilted his head carefully up. A Russian soldier stood above him, eyes glinting from under his fur cap. He was handsome, but there was something wild about him; the dark curls at his collar, the slightly feral grin, the coiled energy radiating from him. He spoke again.

“Then again, I call this winter a mild one.”

Claude moved, barely. The blade at his throat pressed further, nicking his skin. The Russian continued, his smile growing wider. 

“Careful, my friend. Don’t make this a choice between the two of us.”

The Russian said this with an air of chummy nonchalance, as if they were both discussing dinner. 

Claude moved his arm closer to the gun on his right, but the soldier moved so fast it was a blur; he had his boot on the other man’s arm, trapping it against the hard-packed snow, in less than a second. Claude yelped.

The Russian leaned in, the tip of his sword right above Claude’s heart, breath frosting around his face. 

“I can capture you as a prisoner, or I can bring you to them much colder than you are right now.”

Claude looked to his right. His gun was so close. If he could just…

He stretched his fingers towards it, and that was the last thing he knew.

Dolokhov trudged down the hill towards the clearing. His fellow soldiers looked his way as he approached, and as he drew near to the fire, one jumped up, recognizing him. 

“Dolokhov! My God! I’d heard you were dead, but I knew better; a devil can’t be killed!”

The men embraced. 

“En francais, tu imbecile,” said Dolokhov, but he was smiling. 

He sat down on the end of a log, glancing around at the scarecrow faces. He knew his own looked much the same. Hunger was their constant companion, these days. 

His friend, Chovski, looked at him. 

“I thought I heard something back there. I’m glad it was only you.”

Dolokhov nodded, saying nothing, as the air filled with desperate questions. 

“What news?”

“Is Petersburg still burning?”

“We haven’t seen any French for weeks, despite this being their side.”

“Have you got food?”

This last made all of the men laugh. 

Another man said, sighing, 

“Never mind food, I miss women.”

A hum of agreement went around the circle, and the conversation turned to fond descriptions of wives and mistresses, lovers and promises.

“What about you, Dolokhov? Who do you miss back home?”

Chovski laughed.

“Dolokhov doesn’t believe in love.”

Dolokhov shrugged, his expression smug. 

“That’s not true; women certainly love _me._ ”

There was more laughter at this, then more conversation followed, but Dolokhov, already bored with the subject, got to his feet and stretched.

“You’re not leaving, surely? Come, Dolokhov. Stay the night with us.”

“No, I am in search of information, which I won’t find here.” 

“You’re going closer to their camp, then?”

“I’m going _into_ their camp.”

Some of the newer, younger soldiers exclaimed at this, but the older ones were used to Dolokhov’s foolhardiness.

Chovski stood. 

“Careful, my friend. You are not invincible.”

“Am I not?”

And with a last wolfish grin, Dolokhov turned, his long coat flaring out behind him, and stole into the night.


	2. At Home

Dolokhov stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching couples, the ladies whirling blurs of satin. Most of the men were dressed in uniform, on leave, like himself. 

He stood with fellow officers, but they were already trying his patience with their braying laughter and mundane conversation. 

Damn, give him the clear air and the snowy woods on the border of the French invasion. Give him a good bet and a table full of coins. Give him anything but this overstuffed ballroom with its mediocre inhabitants; its cloying happiness sticking in his throat.

He knew the war would be over soon. It had been months since he had found Pierre and his fellow prisoners among the broken French regiment, and a long four weeks since he had killed the lone soldier in the woods.

The end of the war was near, and Napoleon would withdraw. Russia could heal. 

...and then what?

He caught a young woman watching him on the opposite side. She blinked at him, smiling, and he returned it. Ah. This evening’s entertainment decided.

He made his way leisurely towards her, aware of her watching him. He knew his reputation, and he loved how it served him. As he came up to her and her friend, he bowed low, asking for her name.

She giggled. 

“I am Elina Baranov. I already know who you are.” 

He kissed her gloved hand.

“Then you know I am here to dance with you.”

She shook her head, fluttering her lashes, and Dolokhov pushed away a surge of annoyance at such false shyness. He knew the game was necessary to play, yet he would give a great deal to have a clear-cut conversation, for once.

He offered her his arm, and she took it gladly, and he led her to the floor. As they waited to catch the rhythm, she smiled up at him. 

“I must warn you, I am a very good dancer, Officer Dolokhov.”

He raised his eyebrows, and swept her into the dance.

She wasn’t very good. Dolokhov kept his arm steady at her waist, encouraging, but she was slow on her feet, and she was resisting his lead. He felt as if he could keep time with the beating of his own heart; couldn’t she feel it, didn’t she want to abandon herself to it?

The dance ended, and he whirled them to a stop. She pressed a hand to her chest, breathless.

“I am quite tired after that, Officer. Perhaps we should rest.”

He nodded, and they walked arm in arm out of the ballroom. He steered her to a private corner. 

Elina leaned against the wall, and Dolokhov stood in front of her, one hand casually behind her waist as he kissed her, gently at first, then deeply, his hands roaming freely down her satin dress.

She pulled back, gazing up at him in the dim candlelight, a hand on his chest. 

Dolokhov tilted his head playfully. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

He leaned forward and kissed her neck, then grazed his teeth along her throat. He nipped, gently, and she laughed with delight, then pushed him away, giggling. 

“You are as bad as they say you are, Officer Dolokhov! We are being very naughty!”

He smiled. 

“Not nearly naughty enough.”

He leaned in again, and she submitted eagerly to him, as he knew she would. He kissed her, one hand stroking gently down her side, then hitching beneath her knee. Her leg came willingly up against him, and he pressed into her, hungry now, hard and ready. 

She broke the kiss, gasping. 

“You are a real devil, you know.”

He thrust slowly, purposefully, against her, holding her gaze.

“I know.”

She smiled coquettishly, looking up at him through long lashes.

“A girl ought to be careful, I suppose, with a man as dashing as you.”

Dolokhov smiled.

“Too late.”

He dove for her neck again, and she squealed happily.


End file.
